Breathe Into Me
by Silvarius
Summary: Takes place right after the ending in the season finale, Black Fire Upon Us. Do the boys just stand there as Charles's bleeds out? One of the band members takes action to try to save his life, but who? A certain drummer perhaps? Read to find out.


My first real Metalocalypse story. Hope it's okay. This takes place right where the season finale _Black Fire Upon Us_ left off. I'll give my thoughts on the story at the end. So, read and review.

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This night had to be one of the worst nights of Pickles's life. And it wasn't over yet.

On the ground before him lay the man who had done so much for the band, in more ways than one. The blood was simply pouring from the numerous wounds he had received onto the ground he lay upon. Bright red against an Earthy brown made quite the contrast. Pickles had no idea how this had happened, him and Skwissgar happening to stumble on the sight along with the others.

Not far away from them lay the unconscious body of the assassin, knocked out by Nathan's blow to the head. The sight of that behemoth filled the drummer with rage. Pickles wanted nothing more than to go over and kill him on the spot for what he had done, but there were more urgent issues to attend to, most importantly the one directly in front of him. It angered the redhead that his band mates were just standing there, staring like a bunch of idiots . . . it angered him enough to take action.

"Move!" he yelled, pushing past Nathan, who was standing in front of him. The brutal front man didn't even flinch, unfazed at the smaller man pushing him aside.

Pickles dropped to his knees beside their motionless manager. Up close, his injuries seemed worse. You could see every little cut and bruise on his normally flawless face. His glasses were in two pieces, the lenses completely gone leaving only the frames. The straight, smooth brown hair was now disheveled and unruly, mixing with the blood around him, turning it an ugly shade of maroon. Charles's eyes were both black and swollen to the point of being unable to open, only a small sliver of his left eye could be seen -- a stark contrast to the black and purple mix surrounding it.

He scanned the manager's torso, checking for other injuries, when he saw something he didn't want to see. He had been too focused on the facial injuries to notice the large red splotch on Charles's jacket. Not thinking of what the guys would say to him about it, Pickles ripped open the jacket and shirt, exposing the spot the blood was coming from. He gasped at the sight. The blood was gurgling out of a hole every time Charles took a breath, making a soft sucking sound like a milkshake being sucked through a straw. Pickles mentally kicked himself for the horrid analogy.

All of a sudden, as he was watching it, the gurgling stopped. The rise and fall of the manager's chest had ceased altogether. He moved up to the man's face. Faint traces of blue were starting to appear around his lips. Pickles's took a deep, calming breath. This wasn't happening, at least not today, he would not panic.

"Guys, he stapped breathing!" He yelled back to the others who had yet to move. "Somebady, get over here and halp."

Surprisingly, Murderface appeared across from him. "We need to schtart schee PR."

Pickles's eyes widened, "Dude, what's CPR?" Murderface just shrugged.

"I don't know. I shaw it in a movie schomewhere. Thisch guy quit breathing and they pounded on hisch chest and kept kissching him. It was grossch. A guy kissching another guy. Schomething ain't right there."

Pickles wanted to punch Murderface. "I don't care abat that!" He yelled, "How the fucking hell do we help him?" His patience was completely gone and panic was setting in. Charles was dieing and there was nothing he could do.

He remembered Murderface's explanation of CPR. _Thisch guy quit breathing and they pounded on hisch chest and kept kissching him. _That last part kept repeating in his mind until it dawned on him . . . kissing him. He understood what he had to do, for the future of the band, even if the guys would rag on him later for it. It wasn't like he had never touched a man before, they knew that.

Lifting the lifeless body into his arms, Pickles lowered his lips onto Charles's. Putting all of his air into the kiss, forcing it into this other man's. It tasted very coppery, as the drummer was forced to pull away and spit out the blood that had accumulated in his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he went back in, forcing all that air out through the vast amount of blood into Charles's lungs. Had he any alcohol in his system, he would have thrown up from the sight and smell of all the blood coming from the injured man. Tonight, though, he was stone cold sober, only because this man he was trying to save had asked him to be.

He leaned down for another kiss/rescue breath, remembering why he was doing this. Again, he forced all of the air in his lungs to transfer to the other's. Only this time, when he pulled away, a small cough could be heard. Laying the man back down on the ground, Pickles breathed a short sigh of relief. The danger wasn't over yet -- there was still too much blood -- but there was hope.

"Easy, easy dude. Relax." The small cough had turned into a loud coughing fit, blood spraying everywhere. He kept a hand on Charles's shoulder to reassure him. There was no answer though. The small amount of eye that could be seen through the swelling was looking straight into the green ones above him in a quick, silent gesture of thanks before rolling up into his head. Pickles leaned down close to Charles's face, trying to picture what the man had looked like before being maimed and potentially disfigured, at the same time watching him struggle to remain breathing.

Around him, oblivious to it all, things were starting to spring into action. Klokateers had arrived, treating everyone's wounds and making sure things were okay. A large number of them had descended on Charles and Pickles, finally forcing the red-head to let go of the motionless body in his arms, whisking it away before he even realized he had let go. All of that seemed to go in slow-motion for him, only taking a few seconds in real time.

As Pickles walked back to join his band mates, a single tear escaped his eye. The horrors that they had faced were finally catching up to him. For the second time that night, the drummer had allowed himself to cry. For everything that had happened that night and the consequences that were bound to take place. Most of all, he cried for Charles because he knew no one else would.

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 I tried not to make this slashy, but given the circumstances, it kind of came out that way. I like the idea of Charles and Pickles being friends because they're older.  And for the record, he's not dead (at least I hope not).

Also, I know that's not proper emergency medicine (i'm an EMT, it's what I do for a living), but I figured these guys would not know the faintest thing about CPR and rescue breathing. Hey at least Pickles tried and fortunately succeeded.

Please read and review. Let me know what you think.

- Silvarius


End file.
